


this I have learned for myself

by secretfeanorian



Series: the worst things in life come free to us [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretfeanorian/pseuds/secretfeanorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bad days are getting worse. The fact that they are so rare only adds to the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this I have learned for myself

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There are mentions of Maglor considering suicide. Nothing big. It’s a quick moment and it’s over within a paragraph.

_Where you are headed, there are no trails, no paths, just your own instinct. You have followed the omens and finally arrived. And now, you have to take the great leap into the unknown and figure out for yourself who is right, who is wrong and who you are.  
_

* * *

Sometimes, he’ll find himself staring off into nothing and when he finds himself in that position, an empty ache begins to build up deep within him. Those are the bad days. They are now the only kind of bad days he has anymore, which theoretically is good, but somehow it’s also bad.  
  
They are the worst kind of bad days and now when he wakes up and just knows it’s going to be some form of a bad day, there’s no speculation. There is no possible hope that by bad day, it just means that it’s not going to go exactly how he had hoped.  
  
There’s none of that. A bad day means a day spent wallowing in self-pity, a day spent staring off into a dark past long-gone and as unchangeable as the day it was forged.  
  
The bad days are getting rarer and rarer, but they still happen and when they go, Maglor finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into despair.  
  
Those are the days he almost gives up. Those are the days he wishes the Void would just swallow him up again and not spit him out at all this time. Thank Eru those days are so rare, because if they were common, Maglor thinks the Void would have taken him back by now.  
  
Away from those dark days, Maglor is still terrified of the Void far more than he finds the nothingness of the Void welcoming. He tries not to be alone when he’s having a bad day, but sometimes he just cannot stand to be near anyone but complete strangers. Those are the worst of his bad days. He’s still not completely sure how he manages to get through those particular days. He attributes it to luck at first, but it doesn’t take him long to decide he doesn’t believe in luck – nor has he ever believed in it – and after that he decides someone really wants him to stay alive.  
  
Any and every time he even starts to think about that dreadful way out his older brother took so many millennia ago, something gets in his way. A nearby car accident, a loud noise, a concerned stranger, a shouting match on the next street down. The list of ways that train of thought has been silenced goes on and on and on. Somehow, though, the thought always manages to come creeping back in. As time goes by, he becomes better at pushing the urge down on his own, but he still needs help from time to time.  
  
That help is subtle and quiet, but it’s always there when he needs it. Sometimes, though only sometimes, he doubts that that is a truly a good thing.  
  
The world has been quiet – or as quiet as it can be – lately and Maglor appreciates this. He may have been remembered for war and he may have found himself offended when someone called him the gentle and the peaceful feanorian (because those things he was not and what portions of those characteristics he possessed were also possessed by most or all of his brothers), but that does not mean he enjoys war and disorder and battle. He does not.  
  
Not anymore. Once, long ago, there may have been a slight thrill in the battle, but the illusion that war was glorious was quickly erased; if it had ever been allowed in him at all and whatever small pleasure he may or may not have had in fighting evaporated almost just as long ago.  
  
He’s a warrior, true, and he always will be, but he is a tired warrior and he is more than just a warrior. He always has been. There may have been a time – and there probably was – where he had been even more, but if that time existed at all, it is long gone.  
  
And Maglor knows far better than most how once something like that is gone, it is never, ever coming back. He’s accepted that. He accepted it a long time ago.  
  
 _Everything is a long time ago with him_ , he mutters bitterly and regrets saying it and takes the statement back. Not everything is locked in ‘a long time ago.’ Yet. The pessimism creeps up and Maglor chuckles darkly. _Everything ends but Maglor_ , he thinks and he also thinks he shouldn’t find that as amusing as he does. Or amusing at all. Oh well. His sense of humor is lost in a pit of twisted jokes and was dropped there a long time ago.  
  
He notices the use of the four hateful words once again and he scowls. You can’t escape the oh-so-distant past it seems. The scowl stays in place and Maglor stares off into nothing.  
  
Somewhere in his subconscious, he recognizes the sign of a bad day, then he scoffs. There have been quite a few signs of a bad day already. “You haven’t noticed until just now?” He asks his subconscious mockingly, and then stops because holding an argument with your subconscious is never a good sign. Never. Maglor’s subconscious agrees.  
  
He’s definitely a lost case, he decides. A real nut job. He laughs. That shouldn’t be funny. He doesn’t know why he finds it funny. His sense of humor is just one of his many problems that need fixing. He laughs at that too and this he does understand to be funny.  
  
Between the dozen or so of the people living 24/7 in Avengers Tower, they have quite a few problems going around. He laughs harder. Somewhere in his mind, there’s a voice saying he should really be concerned about that, but he shoves it away. He’s wasted enough of his life being concerned about things.  
  
(He vaguely remembers that most of his life has actually been spent wading in and sinking through nothingness, but he shoves that away, saying it doesn’t count)  
  
He’s a master of being worried and he hates that fact far more than he hates the actual action of worrying. He’s not bothered by _that_ , and doesn’t think twice about _that_ fact. Why should he?  
  
He still thinks sometimes he sees Maedhros watching him through the eyes of random, complete strangers. That is a problem and Maglor is worried by that. He can’t let go of the past and quite often now, it seems the past can’t let go of him either. He doesn’t stop to wonder if that thought makes any sense whatsoever, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t. A startlingly high percentage of the things that come out of his mouth are the same way.  
  
 _Oops_ he thinks, but is not sorry and does not feel obliged to pretend like he is. He’s never been much for pretending. That feeling doesn’t run in the family, he thinks, and the ache in his chest stings for a few minutes before settling back down to its usual dull pinpricks.  
  
He can handle the pinpricks. The stings are only just bearable and anything more than a sting and he feels ready to pull his hair out. _Hair_ he thinks and realizes that he had forgotten to braid his hair up this morning and it now hangs limply about his shoulders. He can’t manage to muster the energy needed to do anything about that, so he doesn’t and leaves it dangling there.  
  
He senses more than he hears someone sitting down next to him on the boardwalk. He doesn’t turn to look at the person, but waits for them to say something. They don’t and after a few minutes, he feels them take his hand, which has been hanging loosely off the side of the boardwalk. It’s a few minutes more before anything is said. When the silence between them is broken, it’s broken with the soft whisper of “I love you Cana.”  
  
Now he turns, but the space beside him is empty. He still feels the weight of a hand in his and he looks down. His hand is wrapped around empty air, but the lingering echo of those four words remains and the weight in his hand doesn’t go away.


End file.
